Four and Twenty Blackbirds
by yuugata no baka
Summary: Dean dies peacefully and God-Chuck decides it's time to have a word with him about the state of his feathery sons and daughters. Dean has slept with a record number of angels, after all. Dean/Cas, future!, allusions to other pairings, general naughtiness


Old age! Jackpot. Dean scored the good one – the highest-scoring option on the death playlist, or at least, it should be. The hardest one to actually get, especially for a hunter. When he was told his heart was "giving out", trying to hide the smile on his face when he realized how lucky he was (and the childish giggle when he figured out he was going under at year 69), he just nodded and clapped the doctor on the back.

His infinitely patient sister-in-law seemed a little taken aback when he shared the news, a little confused that he wasn't, you know, _upset_ about his impending curtain call, but Sam understood. He knew his brother was ready for death since he was about 30. The only reason he'd fought against his mortality was to keep his brother safe, and, well, his brother was as safe as could be, now, nestled up with his gorgeous wife and two brilliant daughters.

So, when the time came and he fell asleep with his angelic husband holding his hand, Dean felt like he'd really accomplished something, like a big project he'd been working on was finally completed, and he died with a smile.

Then, his favourite reaper showed up, looking beautiful and ageless, and he slung an arm around her shoulders and thanked her for a job well done.

Dying was over quick. Then it was a matter of waiting to see where death led him. Heaven or Hell? He was thinking the forces at be were probably just going to flip a coin and see where to land him. And he'd conquered both realms, after all. And at this point he was so overjoyed at having died peacefully that he wasn't thinking about the traumatic half-century he spent down below. So, bring it on, afterlife.

When he ended up in a beat-up looking diner he was a little bit lost. Tessa left him at the doorway with a playful smirk, so he pushed open the door, which chimed with a clunky peal of bells as he closed it behind him and stepped up to the counter. A young soul greeted him with a smile from behind the counter, everyone else mostly ignored him, until he spotted a familiar face.

"Hey, Chuck," Dean shot a grin at the scruffy fellow, still in his early thirties like he had been when Dean first encountered him, "I mean, Lord."

Chuck's lips tightened and he gave an acknowledging nod of his head, approaching Dean. He didn't look happy, or serene – actually, more like pissed. Probably not a good sign, but Dean was never that quick to pick up on other people's discomfort, unless it was being bitch-faced back at him.

"So am I in? Did I make the nice list? I mean, I did save the world a couple of times. You kinda owe me one–" Dean replied smugly, catching the attention of a few of the patrons of diner.

"Yeah, I owe you one alright," Chuck mumbled under his breath, before setting Dean with an indignant look, trying his best to make the whole 'bachelor who just rolled out of bed'-look look threatening. "You also _started_ the Apocalypse a few times, you know."

Dean shrugged, in too high spirits to be sweatin' the small stuff, like the few times he and his brother almost ended the world. Dying with no regrets felt as good as he thought it would.

Chuck circled around Dean, coming up to the counter and laying a hand on it, his small frame dwarfed even still by Dean's aged, hunched, bow-legged body. It was charming, really, the All-father trying to make himself look bigger. "You're at The Gates, Dean," he explained, serious look on his face, "where we get to decide which direction you're headed."

"Nice décor." Dean made an impressed face, pursing his lips, scanning the old joint before landing back on the Creator. "You're here for this? Isn't it supposed to be some saint or something?"

"The final judgement is mine, obviously," God explained with a shrug of one shoulder, "I usually post one of my children here to make them feel like they're doing something."

Dean's soul smiled familiarly. He wondered if the father of all creation appeared to all of his subjects on their level, or if he actually personally shared God's sense of humour. "All this way for me? I'm flattered."

Chuck almost laughed, stress lines around his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Yeah, I figured I should meet you personally for this."

Dean lifted his hand in a ready gesture, "okay, sure. What's the deal?"

Chuck became suddenly serious. "It's about my firstborns."

The smile left Dean's face like water draining rapidly from cloth. _Oh. Those _ones_._ His mouth floundered like he was trying to make some kind of excuse.

"As of the time of your death, Dean, you've slept with a record-breaking number of angels," Chuck continued, "not to mention directly caused the defection of several hundred others. But you know what? That second part doesn't really bother me as much."

Dean took a step back. "Okay, whoa, I don't think it was _that_ many–"

"Oh really?" God interrupted, "the previous record, for your information, was _one_. Not many humans have the audactiy to have sex with _that many_ celestial beings."

Dean shrugged, raising his hands, "I have a type?" He felt he was being tested. If the old guy upstairs wanted him struck down, he'd be down. So what was with the hesitation? "It doesn't – humans don't work like that. People, or uh, 'divine beings', they meet, things happen. You don't get how it works."

"I created everything, Dean. I know how _everything _works."

Dean couldn't help himself but give a little sly grin much like the one he used to shoot Sammy when he was teasing. "Even those new iPad version 11.0s? 'Cause those are–"

It was the first time Dean had been personally glared down by God, and even he, who had once told an angel "nah" in response to his life-or-death ultimatum, and called every manner of powerful supernatural being a "son of a bitch" to their face, couldn't help but waver a little.

"It's…it's not like I took advantage of anyone," his voice cracked like he was a teenager again, fitting, since he was currently answering to the angry father of several of his hook-ups. "They're all million-year-old adults, they can take care of–"

"Right. Please, then, how about you tell me in your own words _all about_ how you _violated_ my children?" Chuck asked, baiting, tired eyes wide as he tapped the counter. "Have a seat."

Dean put his hands up in surrender. This was not a good start. He was used to dealing with overprotective fathers since he was about 15 years old, bolting down driveways from old men in ties with shotguns blasting pellets off the gravel at his heels. He was less confident he could outrun _this_ father, though, so he did his best to make himself small.

"Look, Chuck, I'm not– but hey, I'm human, I'm a man, I make mistakes–" He declined to mention that he didn't think it was written anywhere in the Bible "thou shalt not fuck angels if the opportunity is ripe".

"Have a seat," Chuck repeated, pulling out a stool and sitting up on it, gesturing that Dean do the same, tapping insistently on the stool next. He watched as Dean shakily sat down, one hand on the counter in a fist, spine stiff.

"Look, I can see why you'd be mad, but…" Dean didn't know exactly where to start, "what goes on between two consenting adults–"

"They're my babies, Dean," Chuck raised his hands as if making an offer. "Imagine how you'd feel if it was your kids."

Dean thought quickly of Sam's children, whom he obviously loved like his own. They were old and grown and with their own kids now, but he could easily imagine their small, round, innocent faces when they were young enough to sit on his knee and he could raise them up to the sky and pretend they were flying. Yeah, he'd be pretty uncomfortable in Chuck's position.

_Speaking of uncomfortable_, Dean thought loudly, imagine being introduced to the Father of all Creation by an awkward, small man looking up at you through baggy eyes and a permanent bachelor's scruff, saying, "son, we need to talk," and looking pointedly at your boyfriend, whose eyes immediately glazed over and pouting, full lips fell open, leaving you looking like a gaping idiot who'd just seen the face of God in the guise of a struggling Midwest author. _Because you'd just seen the face of God in the guise of a struggling Midwest author._

Dean lowered his head in resignation and decided now was not the time to mention that time when the All-father sprung that shit on him. "Yeah, okay."

"Remember Anna?" Chuck raised a questioning eyebrow, "remember how you knew her about 24 hours before you decided to have your way with her?"

The image of the slim, powerful redhead rose over his head and he remembered what it felt like to touch her, and he hoped to _God_ (quite ineffectually given who he was talking to) that Chuck couldn't see into his memory. "Okay, whoa, _she _came on to _me_. And besides, she wasn't even an angel at the time–"

Chuck fixed him with the most wicked glare Dean had ever seen and his mouth slammed shut immediately. "She left home, she went rogue, but she was still my baby girl. You get what I'm saying, here, Dean?"

Dean's aptitude for pissing off all-knowing beings was proving extremely powerful, even in death. "Yeah, but, at the time, in my eyes, she was just a girl I had a fling with, okay. No big deal. To_ either_ of us, I promise." He remembered with a grimace Anna's coldness in their subsequent meetings. "It's not like I took advantage of her or whatever–"

"No, but remember Chelsea? Nebraska, summer 2017?" Chuck interrupted, glare still fixed.

Dean's mind scrambled back to that era. Summer '17 was Sam's wedding…the girl dressed as a nurse-angel at the bachelor party! She was wearing the cliché white nurse's uniform that never was existed in any era of medicine ever, with a cute fuzzy halo suspended over her head on a wire, and hot-glue-gunned on feathers on her fake wings… A few (hundred) drinks between the two of them, then a little bit of friendly under-the-clothes-over-the-undies touching…then he blacked out.

The man's eyes went wide as he realized. "She was…an _actual_ angel?"

"Yup. Cheherazel. She was sent to keep an eye on you and Castiel," Chuck explained briefly, making Dean feel even more guilty about that night. Cas had told him before the party that it was okay if he wanted to "engage in intimacy" with any of the attending, that he understood if he needed sexual gratification beyond what their relationship could provide, and so Dean went out with a clear conscience and the full intention of wearing one of those gorgeous strippers like a belt.

But when morning came he felt so awful he buried his face in Cas' lap and apologized until it felt like he was gonna throw up, even with his perfect boyfriend petting his hair and saying it was okay, he understood.

They got married shortly after.

"We didn't do anything, really," Dean insisted, exasperated, "I mean, I don't think we did, and it was a mistake, really, seriously."

Chuck looked the tiniest bit sympathetic, but unconvinced, "how about Gabriel?"

Dean's eyes went wide. "Nononono! That was a joke, okay?! That doesn't even count!"

The omnipotent novelist looked questioningly at Dean, if not a little entertained to see how red his face turned, lighting up all of his freckles like search lights, "oh? A joke?"

"He looked like someone else, and came onto me, and if I knew it was him, I wouldn't've touched him, I swear to–" he stopped and quickly shut his mouth. He swallowed nervously. "And besides, there's no _way_ he was a virgin before that. He'd been banging demigods since _years_ back." Also porn stars. And mothers-to-be (whom he had informed of their upcoming nativity – oh, Gabriel, banging MILFs before it was cool). Also the occasional moose.

"Yeah, not the point I'm trying to make, here," Chuck replied. Dean gave a quick "sorry".

"And Balthazar? You let him blow you in a parking garage in Vermont," the matter-of-fact quality of the all-knowing one's voice was stirringly unfitting, given the subject matter. "You telling me that was a mistake too? He slipped and fell on your junk?"

Dean dropped his head, hands in his lap, staring at his fidgeting thumbs. "Yeah, no, that was my fault."

This was not going well. How could it? You didn't just have sex with a guy's offspring and expect him to clap you on the back and call you his pal. And what was worse, what had happened to those angels after Dean had been with them… like Hester said to him once during a particularly dark period in the man's legacy, "the very touch of you corrupts". He didn't want to believe it, he didn't want to admit that it was _all his fault_, but he knew what happened to Heaven's army was at least partly his responsibility. Then there was Cas…oh_ God_,_ Cas_…the angel was never, _could never_ be the same after he met Dean.

"What about Castiel?" Chuck asked, timing apt.

Dean's gaze rose, defensive, voice steady, holding his own against the All-father this time. "What about him? We're both consenting adults." Cas knew what he was getting into, didn't he? He _chose_ this. Chose _Dean_.

"He was my ever-virginal youngest son and you violated him wearing the skin of an old man." Chuck said deadpan, voice serious, but not with malice. More disappointment. No one likes it when their kids grow up and change, but it's not usually something to send a guy to Hell over.

"Well, when you put it like _that_, it sounds _awful_," Dean replied, "But Cas's aged well. He's happy and healthy. What more do you want?"

"You're right, besides the fact that he _has_ aged, which, you know, he's _not supposed to_," Chuck bit back, "he seems to be doing fine." He paused, jaw square, looking for Dean's reaction, seeing a nervous flinch in his face, but firm resolve underneath.

"How about you take a look for yourself, and tell me?"

The Great Spirit then looked out the window of the diner, where before was a quiet one-way street lined with cheap cars was now a lawn, immaculately trimmed grass around a series of cement plaques. Cas walked into view holding a flower – one he'd obviously picked himself, one that wasn't from a store, one that was alive and twisted and turning brown around the edges, and he walked intently to place the flower on one of the small plaques.

Dean watched as Cas laid the flower on his grave marker, smiling as he did, bright blue eyes shining just as they ever did, even though the wrinkles around them were much deeper now. His back curved and his shoulders hunched, but he looked strong, just as wonderfully powerful as he had when Dean first met him and emptied a shotgun into his chest.

He said he could depart his body with Dean when he died, that they could go to the afterlife together, but Dean said no, that if he was going to be a mortal he was gonna do it _right_, and stay with Sam and his family and wait until it was his time to go, naturally. Dean thought briefly of mentioning this agreement to Chuck, but figured he already knew, on account of, you know, the_ omnipotence_. Instead he just watched his beloved husband smile down at his grave, and make a silent promise to see him soon.

"He's alone, now, Dean," Chuck noted, looking seriously at Dean. "He fell for you, gave up his immortality for _you_, and now you're not even there with him. He's all alone."

Dean stared in awe at his best friend of many, many years, amazed at just how perfect, _perfect_ he still looked, he _always _looked, then turned to look God in the face. "No, no he's not."

Chuck's face remained unchanged, serious with a vague hint of sympathy. He turned and peered over into the far corner of the restaurant, which turned into a dining room table, four chairs around it, his brother, still ludicrously tall, though a little hunched with age, his petit wife, seated side-by-side at two. Cas walked into the half room with a dish, wincing and withdrawing one hand as he set it down, having accidently skimmed the oven-hot edge with his finger. Dean jumped instantly when he saw Cas hurt, as though he could do anything; Chuck noticed it in silence.

The three at the table sat quietly, contentedly, until Sam reached across the table and pat his brother-in-law on the shoulder, smiling as he did, Cas remaining still under his warm touch, seated next to Dean's empty chair. The three ate, smiling, talking, their words lost to Dean, who was watching happily as their mouths moved until they faded out and their dining room became the diner's corner booth again.

Chuck sighed, turning to lean back over the counter. He watched Dean curiously for a moment before shifting to look over the counter, where the kitchen turned into a backyard, the countertop short grass, a set of silver pots and pans a healthy garden bed.

Cas was in the middle of the yard, crouching on the grass, smiling gently as a beautiful green-eyed child ran across the grass and slung his little arms around his granduncle's shoulders. Cas hugged him tight, lifting him as they stood, man and child both barefoot, toes soaking up the tenderness of the green grass, the child laughing as his grandfather spoke to him and pet his hair.

Dean swallowed past a lump in his throat. _His _Cas, so perfect, so bright, so beautiful – how could any of what he was be even_ close_ to being called "fallen"?

"Do you think you made him happy?" Chuck asked suddenly, catching Dean off guard. As he turned back to the all-knowing, the backyard faded back into a kitchen.

The man smiled, knowing his eyes were watering, and he didn't give a damn. "He made himself happy. He decided to be free, to have a life all his own."

Chuck gave a bit of an amused, if not incredulous sound. "You realize, he had a life in Heaven. A family, too. Brothers and sisters."

"I know," Dean replied, "and it ruined him to have to fight them. He messed up his family for us, Sam and me. And I'm sorry, Chuck, but I'm glad he did.

"And as for me? Do I think I made him happy? Nope. I _make_ him happy. And I will continue for the rest of eternity, Heaven or Hell, I'll find a way to him, he'll find his way to me, and I'll make him happy until the end of the universe."

Chuck sighed. He dropped his head, chuckling. "Wow," he snorted, "well that's a sappy line if I ever heard one. And I have heard every single sappy line ever uttered since Adam told Eve she 'was the only one in the world for him'."

Dean was taken aback. He readjusted himself in his seat, looking doubtfully at the lord of all things as only a man in his position could. "Uhm, what?"

"Come on, Dean," Chuck replied with exasperation, "if I denied access to Heaven to every schmuck who ever had sex with someone he wasn't supposed to, the joint would be _empty_. You're good, Dean, you're good."

The ex-hunter looked like he could keel over right there, if he weren't already dead. He shook his head. "So what was this, huh? A life-long review of all my lapses in judgment? You showing off how you're all-powerful and I'm just a…_a man slut_?!"

"I wanted you to think about how I feel," Chuck replied shortly.

"I have _no way _of knowing how you feel." Dean glared.

A small grin flitted to the writer's face. "Exactly."

Dean's eyebrows rose as realization started to dawn on him. The realization that someone was trying to teach him something. Travelling with a research-happy Sam for many years had taught him to recognize the feeling well.

"The first step into the afterlife is accepting your mortality," Chuck explained, lifting his hands in the way that his human son was always depicted doing in paintings, "that's more or less the _only_ step. Also, I wanted you to know where we stand on the whole defiling my daughters and sons thing."

Dean felt his stomach curl and shrivel up like a worm dried up on the sidewalk. God was blackmailing him. _God was blackmailing him_. He shook his head in disbelief.

"You're a sneaky son of a bitch. Now I know where Cas gets it from."

"Yeah, alright," Chuck smiled serenely, "and you're the man who directly caused a rebellion of angels that led to the expulsion of about eighty thousand of my kids from their home. And remember that time you pushed my two eldest sons into the fiery pits of Hell? Because I do."

"Whoa, that was Sam, okay," Dean jumped to his feet, hands raised in surrender again, "I mean, I barely even helped. That was totally not my fault."

"Is this a goal of yours? To be the World's Biggest Smartass?" Chuck asked over his shoulder as he turned to leave the diner, robe slung over his shoulders, looking suddenly a lot more like a father than Dean had seen him before. "'Cause you fall short, my friend, he's already in here, you should meet him."

Dean was floundering for a response when he saw the place Chuck had disappeared engulfed with light, which glowed around the edges of a set of bar-style double-doors. He knew what it was and he knew what was behind it, as he'd seen his Heaven before, and knew there were fireworks and grass and an old car waiting for him there, and he was so freakin' excited he felt like his heart might explode.

Dean stood and walked towards the gates, wishing a quick farewell to the angels he'd loved in his life, with and without wings; and to the one he knew was most definitely listening, a promise to see him soon.


End file.
